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Little Girl Tries To Escape
passesinthemorning
This soul is made of fire
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growing up
Which each passing year my skin pales
The everlasting beauty faded with the stares
Relationships died in my arms and I watched
The fire and flames dimmed to darkness
My days were no longer alive
Work eighty hours for pay just to barely get by
Life left by the boomers, the previous gen
It was nightmarish, surviving, may as well be dead
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nothing but a memory
Oxygen now burned his nostrils and a burning question nagged his mind: did it mean anything? With her buried in a shallow grave somewhere, decomposing by the second, did he regret even meeting her?
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